Normal bitching

Sunday, February 29, 2004

Oh, Uma. Honey …

Can somebody tell me why, at the Oscars, Uma Thurman was wearing a short-sleeved, kimono-karate-uniform-thing with a crinoline under it? And what the hell was going on with Jada P. Smith? At first I thought I liked her outfit, but then I got a second look and thought, "I don't get it." And to Liv Tyler, Scarlett Johanson (sp?) and Charlize Theron: Enough with the '40s waves, especially Liv -- I don't know what you were going for, but don't do it again.

Surprisingly, though, everyone looked pretty good last night. Even Nicole Kidman, who I usually think looks like crap (gold, sparkly ice skater ensemble for the Golden Globes, anyone?), turned it out. I think my favorite was Diane Lane, but she's just so damn hot, anyway. And I don't think I've ever seen Susan Sarandon look bad at the Oscars.

As if my neuroses weren't working overtime as it was, Choire opened up the flood gates with this little nugget.

Here's my question: Just how would a newspaper screen job candidates, stringers, editors or anyone else making news-type decisions? Would they ask them their sexual preference, or if they were HIV-positive? What are their political beliefs? If they're opposed to murder or rape or child molesting or war? If they're fundies or atheists? Because that's what newspapers cover, and I can guarantee you that there isn't a living, breathing soul on the face of this planet that doesn't have some sort of bias. And besides, you can't ask someone those kind of questions because, well, if you turn someone away for their beliefs/race/sexuality, that's called discrimination, and people frown upon that sort of thing. So, what to do, what to do ... wait, I know, how about allowing people to do their jobs? You can't tell me there aren't gay men and women in journalism who aren't covering the marriage issue right now, and you can't tell me there aren't Jewish people not covering the war, and that they're completely without feeling on the subjects they're covering. So how about trusting them to do what they do?

Ok, so Greta, my across-the-hall neighbor, and I went to Target tonight so she could pick up her new bedding for when she moves into the house she's buying. (It's lovely, a gold and sage striped theme.) As we're loading stuff into her truck, I notice what had to be a brand spankin' new Chevy Cavalier in that "Caribbean blue" color that only Chevy makes, right? And hanging underneath the bumper? A blue ball sac. No, seriously -- it was made of leather, I think (no, I did NOT touch it), and it was vaguely vein-y and just hanging there like a scrotum. It was even lopsided, for Chrissakes. I'm still trying to figure out the irony, here, but ... yeah. There's someone running around Northwest Indiana with a ball sac hanging from his or her bumper. I mean, I might get the joke if it were hanging out of the trunk or something. But underneath the bumper? I'm ... confused.Oh, whatEVER.

A hazard of my chosen career path is calling potential sources for a story and never knowing who's going to be on the other end. Like today, I called down to a home improvement store asking about solar panel attic fans for a story I'm working on, and I'm talking to this guy. Seemed pleasant enough, but that voice ... why do I know that voice?

So the guy and I talked solar attic fans for a few minutes, and then I ask him his name and position with the store.

"You don't recognize my voice?"(vaguely recognzing) "You know, actually, I do, but I don't know how. Can you give me a hint where I might know you from?""Your youth."(chuckles)"Oh, Jesus. Who is this?""It's ..."

Holy sheep shit, it's the guy with whom I had my first "real" date back the week after I turned 16 (the before-16 dates consisting of clandestine makeout sessions with my 21 year-old Air Force boyfriend in his Mustang, but that's another story for another time). Wow.

He and I were set up through my best friend at the time; they went to school together after she moved. He played bass but was into jazz fusion and classic rock, which made him sophisticated and subversive in my 16 year-old mind. Of course, he was a transparent 17 year-old hormone who broke up with me when I wouldn't put out, but we ended up nailing each other (or attempting to) a couple years later during the summer before my freshman year of college, aka the official start of my late descent into teenage debauchery. He's the first person I ever got high with. And I remember the day, too -- it was in June of 1988 during the hottest summer days ever. It was also the first time I ever drank Ouzo.

He had eye cancer when he was, like, 8, and of course was fitted with a glass eye. I remember telling my crazy friend Mer about it (she was living in Ohio at the time), and the first thing she said was, "Ew! What if it falls down your shirt!?!?!"Oh, whatEVER.

So, I get done with a City Council workshop I covered, and I head out to Johnson's Fish in Lake Station for Catholic Wednesday. This woman comes in and is showing one of the employees this stuffed dog that, when you press its foot, wiggles to "Singing in the Rain." I say, "That's cute," and the woman says, "You want it?" I say, "How much?" She says, "Well, on the Internet you'd pay $30, but you can have it for $10." So I bought it, and now I don't know what I'm going to do with it.

The boys have been running around the crib like their tails are on fire all morning, much to the consternation of my downstairs neighbor, I'm sure. Then again, I can't stand my downstairs neighbor, so any little passive-agressive tormenting is a victory to me.

Anyway, there are myriad reasons as to why I've decided to blog: One is that my closest friends have heard my stories ad nauseum and so I need new victims -- I mean, a new audience with whom to share my soap opera. (On the flipside of that, they may have forgotten how charming my delivery is, so why not give it all to them again in print, right!?!? Heh.) The more important reason, though, is that I'm looking to rediscover what other voice I have besides "GA reporter." Unless you're a columnist, newspaper writing allows for little in the way of personality, and I've become wistful for the days when I could let whatever came out of my head out on the paper for all the public to see. Actually, that's not exactly it -- maybe "refine" my voice is what I'm looking for, because I feel like when I write something, it's like totally predictable how I'm going to set it up, and it ain't as smooth as I'd like.

And let's be honest, here: I'm an attention whore. It's incredibly cool to see my byline all over the place; I wouldn't do it if it weren't.Oh, whatEVER.

It is the job of a good person to be honest. To be self-aware. To deliberately explore the fault lines of your character and try desperately to not inflict suffering in this strange, ghost-ridden world of worked and fabricated objects. Sometimes the jobs of writer and good person coincide. But more often they don’t. There are way more writers in the world than there are good people.

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Broad said:
Like I said, my feelings are complicated on the matter, so ... I’m interested, however, in Her Highness’ thoughts on…
...[go].

Caterina said:
ARGH!!! Not to deny you your goddess-given right of reflections and wishing what might-have-beens, but this guy was straight up…
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Wholovesya? said:
By the by, guess who was most nasty about the charitable giving? The frigging church. My church and my mom’s…
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Wholovesya? said:
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Wholovesya? said:
As you know, I was a voyeur to the beginning of this, and I was loving your comment! I have…
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